He tried to tune out her previous comments and focus on work. He absolutely wouldn’t consider Angel’s claim that the gorgeous redhead currently occupying his penthouse—and his thoughts—liked him and had liked him for years.
Nope. He’d shut that out completely.
* * *
Kimber closed the door to Lyon’s bedroom and stifled a yawn. It was after nine, but he’d finally gone down. Tomorrow, she needed to take them both out to do something. They’d been cooped up in the house for two solid days. She hadn’t imagined an enormous penthouse with an entire wall of windows overlooking Lake Michigan was capable of causing cabin fever, but she’d been wrong.
Of course, that may not be the only cause of her anxiety. Ever since Angel had planted the seeds that Kimber should flirt with Landon, they’d grown into Jack’s beanstalk. As much as she would like to lay blame at Angel’s feet, she couldn’t.
Kimber didn’t need so much as a nudge to turn even a casual “hello” into picking out China patterns prematurely. Mick wasn’t the only date she’d turned into a boyfriend too soon. She’d done that with those who’d come before him. Her secret superpower was the ability to morph a perfectly okay short-term relationship into a doomed one that zombie-dragged its decaying self to inevitable demise.
What she needed to learn was how to take things a moment at a time and stop worrying about the future so much.
In her bedroom, she toed off her shoes, smoothed her patterned pants over her legs, and straightened the billowy jade-green top. You could practice on Landon.
She could.
She bit her lip and tightened the loose ponytail at the back of her head, winding the tendrils framing her face as she considered. Landon wasn’t in the market for a relationship. And if he was, Kimber would be the last woman on the planet to garner his attention. She thought of Lissa Francine with a twist of her lips. Kimber was not a petite honey-blonde strutting her stuff and her bare midriff in magazines and runways.
But.
She was living in his house. Landon might even feel obligated to have a drink with her to be polite if she insisted. She could practice her small talk, her flirting techniques. It wouldn’t be hard to flirt with him. Nowhere near a hardship.
After a few days of afterhours drinks and flirting, she could leave his penthouse, check in hand, and have proven to herself that she could walk away from a relationship. Yes. This plan was lame and had a loophole the size of Denver. But in a way… it was brilliant. Satisfied with her newborn idea, she padded through the hallway and paused next to Landon’s home office. The room was dark save for a strip of lights glowing over a small, barely stocked bar. She stepped into the room, past the wooden floor of the hallway to the deep brown rug. She followed with her other foot and stretched her toes over the piled carpet.
A few liquor bottles stood on the countertop, along with a row of gleaming crystal glasses. She imagined Landon in here, papers spread on the thick mahogany desk, brows lowered over his glasses in deep concentration. He’d lift a glass of amber liquid to his lips and sip, then rub that cleft in his chin with one hand…
“Sexy,” she whispered.
The clearing of a throat had her spinning around. Landon stood in the doorway, briefcase in hand, one eyebrow cocked over the rim of his glasses. Unlike the man in her mind’s eye, this Landon was infinitely hotter. And real.
“Kimber.”
She could listen to him say her name on a loop. The way his tongue kicked out the “K” sound, the way his lips pursed for the “b,” the way his mouth held the “r” for a beat.
“Hi.” She licked her lips, fervently trying to recall if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud while encroaching on his private space. Geez. What might she have said? “Sorry, I was just…” She gestured nervously at nothing in particular, unable to fill in the blank at the end of her incomplete sentence.
“Looking for a drink?”
Okay. She nodded.
“Me, too.” He stepped past her and dropped his briefcase onto the desk, opened it, and unloaded a file. “Good news is there is plenty to drink.” He closed the case with a pair of sharp clicks and lifted his face. “The bad news is I have scotch and scotch.”
His voice penetrated the dim room, warming the space between them. He lifted a remote, and the lights over a white manteled fireplace flicked on, followed by flames inside. No heat came from it. Must be for mood. She kept herself from letting that thought turn rogue.
The heatless orange flames and lights warmed the space further, making the room look like the inside of a highly polished box of cigars.
“Scotch, then.” She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she clutched on to the baby monitor. Since her pants had no pockets, she didn’t have much of a choice but carry it wherever she went.
She gazed around the room at the rows of recessed shelves packed with books—mostly industry-related reads. Marketing, design, and technical handbooks, on software she’d heard of but never used, lined the walls. At the back of the room stood a leather couch made to look worn. She wondered if Landon ever took the time to sit on it. If this was her house, she would only sit there, for the view behind it alone.
A bay window took up the entire width of the wall and overlooked several other tall buildings and the lake below. Twinkling, more from the buildings’ windows than the stars, created a pleasant ambience perfect for a glass of scotch.
“Have a seat. I’m sure you’re worn out from chasing Lyon around all day.”
Landon was going to make this easy on her. Kimber decided to let him. Abandoning the monitor on the table in front of the couch, she sat.
* * *
Landon slid his gaze over Kimber’s wild pants, and a smile tugged at his lips. The print was a loud, large pattern consisting of green leaves, bright orange flowers, and a tangle of fruit. Strawberries, limes, lemons… and what he thought may have been half an avocado on her ass. Not that he’d checked her out as she moved to the couch on the other side of the room…
But he had.
He rerouted his focus on the task of pouring two scotches, wondering if she had ever tasted scotch. Wondering if she’d surprise him by having a proclivity for it, or if she’d be like most women he’d encountered and turn her nose up after one sniff.
A test, then.
He dropped a few ice cubes into her glass, leaving his own glass at room temperature, and trayed up their drinks with a bottle of emergency water if she didn’t like what she tasted.
He crossed the room and rested the drinks on the coffee table in front of Kimber, admiring the way her green top set off the red in her hair and made her eyes pop. So much so, that when she’d turned them up to him, he’d frozen solid for a second and nearly fell into their depths. She pushed a piece of hair behind her ear, then her eyebrows pinched before she brought it back to her face, twirling it just so. Almost like she was nervous.
Because she likes you?
Maybe. But he wasn’t going to act on his suspicion, even if Angel was telling him the truth instead of concocting romance where there wasn’t any. Still, Kimber’s fidgeting was… interesting. He logged that thought for later.
He sat on the center cushion, testing the lack of distance between them. She straightened, pushing herself a bit farther into the corner. But not like she was uncomfortable in a bad way. Like she was uncomfortable in a good way. Palming their glasses, he used the forward motion as an excuse to scoot a few inches away from her. Careful not to touch his fingers, she focused on the glass as she took it from his hand.
Also interesting.
A soft, almost fruity fragrance wafted off her skin. But not like the cucumber body wash he’d purchased for her. Like something else…
“You smell like… grapes,” he muttered. Ridiculous as it sounded, that’s what he smelled.
“Oh.” She inspected her hands and he silently swore at his sister. This was Angel’s fault. Her suggestion Kimber liked him had him noticing her. Everything about her. The sm
all swells of her breasts in the loose shirt she wore. Her bare toes, nails painted pale pink. Her neck and the tendrils of flame-red hair tickling skin he imagined sampling with his tongue.
Damn Angel.
He blinked Kimber into focus. She’d set aside her drink and licked one finger before licking the other and scrubbing vigorously with her free hand; bathing herself like a cat.
What the—
She paused when she noticed him watching and held out a palm. A smudge of purple decorated the crook of her first and middle fingers. “Scented markers.”
He sipped his scotch and definitely did not think about lifting her hand to his lips to finish the job. Reclaiming her glass, she examined the liquid in the dim lighting of the office.
He leaned back against the sofa, laid an arm along the back—dangerously close to her—and opted for the road less traveled in his world: small talk. “So. Kimber Reynolds.”
At the sound of his voice, her cheeks stained a pretty shade of pink. She sent him a confused smile. He smiled back. Couldn’t help it. The look on her face was that of a woman who liked him. And he liked that. A lot more than he should.
“Tell me what you’ve been up to since you were sixteen years old.” He leaned back on the sofa, content to let her talk while he watched her unabashedly.
Contrarily, she couldn’t keep her eyes in one place. They jerked from the bookshelves behind his head to the window, to the glass in her hand. “Um. Wow. That’s a lot of years to summarize.” A breathy laugh escaped her lips. “I um, graduated high school.” She tapped the bottom of her glass with her fingernails. “I did not go straight to college, but by the time I did, I moved so I could attend the Fashion Institute in New York.”
He lifted his brows. She’d lived in New York.
She nodded. “Impressive, right?”
“Very.” How unusual that she’d have an interest in a field so similar to Lissa’s. He wondered if they’d ever crossed paths. “So you wanted to be a big, famous designer with your own runway shows?”
She chewed the corner of her lip. “I did… until I worked for Karl Kingsley.”
Lissa had done a show with Kingsley a few years back. She’d told him the nickname the models had for him. He wondered if that had been a universal moniker. “The Royal Shithead?” he asked.
Kimber laughed, a brief look of surprise crossing her face. Like she hadn’t expected him to be crass. He liked that he’d surprised her. He liked her, period.
“That’s him. Anyway, I got fired. From an unpaid internship. I was standing too close to a model who was spouting off at him and he fired her from the show, and me, and a seamstress who happened to be in the line of fire as well.” She swirled her finger around the edge of her glass, the motion oddly erotic. “After that, I had… problems attaining another internship in New York. I spoke with the seamstress, who was my friend, and she’d had the same issues. We thought Kingsley had blacklisted us somehow. He has a lot of pull in the industry.”
As most old guys who became relics did. Her story reminded him of the job he’d taken straight out of college. Brett Carmichael. The guy acted as if he’d owned the moon rather than RedAd, and when Landon had left to strike out on his own, Brett had attempted to smear Landon’s reputation with his customers. Thankfully, he’d failed. Landon knew because many of those customers had come to him, leaving Brett’s antiquated design where it belonged. In the past.
“I moved to Chicago with my friend Gloria,” she continued. “Evan’s agent”—she glanced at him to make sure he knew her by name. He nodded. “And then I worked in department stores on Michigan Avenue until about a year ago when I opened Hobo Chic.”
“A vintage clothing store. Angel mentioned it.”
“Did she also mention I made the tragic error of partnering with my ex-boyfriend to buy it?” She blinked, almost as if she was stunned that the words had come out of her mouth.
He was getting the idea she didn’t do much planning… for anything. The words she spoke, her actions. He probably had that attribute to thank for her being here.
She waved a hand through the air, the subject along with it. “Anyway. Water. Bridge. What about you? What did you do after college?”
He pressed his lips together. He’d desperately tried to reconnect with Rachel the moment he’d set foot back on campus. She’d gone to live with her aunt in Texas. She’d never contacted him again. Ever. After they’d dated for a year and a half and made a baby she’d aborted.
“That’s a long and boring story,” he lied. Forcing a smile onto his face was like nailing Jell-O to a tree, but he managed. “I take it you’re not a scotch drinker.” He pointed to the glass and she stilled her circling finger.
“What gave me away?” She tilted the glass to examine it again. “What do I do? Swirl it, smell it?”
“Drink it.” Lifting his glass, he demonstrated by pulling in a mouthful of the amber liquid. He swallowed, savoring the burn in his throat. Finally, he was starting to relax. He could feel himself sink into a slight buzz, in part thanks to his skipping dinner. He enjoyed the sensation of his shoulders dropping from beneath his ears for the first time in eleven hours.
She was studying her glass with apprehension. “Why does mine have ice and yours doesn’t?”
“Smell yours,” he said.
She sniffed. Shrugged. “Okay.”
“Now mine.” He tipped his glass in her direction and she held his wrist to steady the glass. The simple connection had him subconsciously moving his body closer to hers, as if she’d dragged him there by an invisible thread. She inhaled, watching him from under a fan of ginger lashes, her eyes wide and watchful.
“Scotchy,” she said.
“The ice tames the scent.”
Every part of her, from her pink mouth to her darkening pupils, to the feather-light touch on his arm, said Kiss me. And, God, how he wanted to.
She moved her hand before he could act on the impulse, lifting her glass to the mouth he wanted to capture with his. She mumbled something like “Here goes nothing,” her words echoing lightly off the cut crystal, before she took in a mouthful, held it for a second, then swallowed it down, a completely adorable scowl on her face.
She stuck her tongue out. “Really?”
A grin he couldn’t contain covered his face. It pulled his cheeks and lifted his glasses. “Scotch is an acquired taste.”
She stared into the glass as if it were filled with worms. “How do you acquire a taste for battery acid?”
His smile held. “Man. I was hoping you wouldn’t be this predictable.”
Her eyebrows tilted, making her look almost hurt. “I’m predictable?”
No. You’re adorable.
“You knew I would make a face when I drank it?” Her voice was high and tight.
“I did.”
“And you knew I’d need the water to wash the taste from my mouth.” She lifted the bottle, uncapped it, and took a swig.
He dipped his chin. “I did.”
“And”—she capped the bottle—“you knew I’d ask to taste yours next?”
He—what?
The side of her mouth curved, a feral little lift, and she gestured to his glass. “May I?”
He handed it over. “Sure.”
“I want to see what scotch without ice tastes like.” She took a drink, turning the glass to sip from the side he sipped from, her lips closing over the rim where his had a moment ago. This time she managed not to wince or frown. She did stick her tongue out, though. To lick a drop of Macallan from her bottom lip before covering it with her top lip and rubbing them together.
He shifted as subtly as he could manage with a two-by-four wedged against his zipper.
“Better.” She offered his glass, her eyes turning up to his again.
He told himself to move away, give both of them some space. But he stayed where he was in spite of his mental orders. Her eyes traveled over his body, and the tingle in his balls moved up his spine and down both
legs simultaneously. Her next question didn’t help hedge his arousal.
“Do you ever take off that tie?” she asked.
He didn’t miss the opportunity to flirt with her. “I don’t wear it in the shower if that’s what you’re asking.”
Kimber sucked in a deep breath, and he hoped it was because she was imagining him naked. It was only fair since he’d pictured her that way now, too. He was playing with fire, and it was far more fun than he remembered.
He slid a glance down her arms and up again, wanting badly to reach out and touch her. Just a touch.
“You look good in green,” he said, sliding his fingers beneath the short sleeve nearest him and running the tip of his index finger along the satin-smooth skin on the inside of her upper arm.
She gasped, barely, but he’d heard it. He met her eyes, saw the flash of interest, the war she was waging with propriety, or maybe she was simply reacting to the familiarity between them. He felt it, too. Felt the charge between the scant inch separating their legs, the electric current streaming through his fingers as he tickled her flesh.
“I’m thirsty.”
He yanked his arm away from her at the sound of his nephew’s voice. Lyon lingered in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and yawning and looking utterly uninterested that his uncle was hovering over his nanny.
“Hey, buddy.” Landon had to clear his throat when the words came out as a croak.
Lyon shuffled over to the couch and climbed up and sat between them. Landon reluctantly made room. “I wanted to say good night but you were asleep,” he told his nephew, smoothing his hair against his head.
Lyon yawned again, his eyelids as heavy as sandbags. “I can’t sleep.”
Sure he can’t. He flicked a look over his nephew’s head at Kimber, whose lips twitched in amusement.
She leaned down to eye level with Lyon. “How about I get you some water?” She smiled with a purity that squeezed Landon’s chest. He loved Lyon like he would his own kid. He should have been here when he said he would. Tomorrow, he vowed. Tomorrow, he’d get home in time to tuck him in. Balancing business and family this week had proven to be a challenge he’d failed. Thank God for Kimber.
The Millionaire Affair (Love in the Balance) Page 6